Oh
by scriggly
Summary: Mycroft has an aural fetish. WARNING: Explicit sibling incest.


**Author's note. **This has been sitting on my drive since I saw ASiB and had to get Sherlock's orgasmic "oh" out of my system. I had no idea we would get to see Sherlock and Mycroft deducing together in TEH, and I thought it was something that Sherlock's drug use had put an end to.

Also, one problem with writing for yourself is you don't worry about POVs and how to announce them and that sort of thing. When I wrote this I wanted both Mycroft's and Sherlock's POVs, so I just wrote them like that. I have no idea how to separate them now, so this is a good opportunity for me to see if they're sufficiently distinct.

**Warnings. **Mention of underage that was not acted upon.

General nastiness toward Lestrade's team. I adore Lestrade but I dislike his team immensely, although after Season 3 I've grown quite fond of Anderson.

Also, my headcanon for Mycroft and my interpretation of BCC Mycroft are drastically different from almost everyone's, therefore my Mycroft will seem OOC to most, God help you all.

Unbetaed.

Sherlock is yelling and gesturing with his hands, and Mycroft should ask him to stop yelling because this is Mycroft's office and Sherlock can't keep storming in whenever he has a problem with the team of bullies masquerading as police officers, but angry bitterness floods Mycroft's mouth when he thinks of Sherlock and bullies – Sherlock and past and present and future bullies, no fucking doubt – and he can't ask Sherlock not to storm in whenever he wants, because Sherlock has only just started accepting Mycroft's help and Mycroft's touch after long years of resentment. Mycroft will have an angry Sherlock any day over the former addict fresh out of rehab who would rather starve than deign to acknowledge Mycroft's existence, much less accept anything Mycroft offered.

Sherlock is still spouting amidst the whirlwind of his anger, pacing back and forth and stopping to glare at the walls as though their mere presence is an audacity. Sherlock's bluegreen eyes flash and his curls keep shaking and tumbling over his eyes, and Mycroft can't ask him to calm down because Sherlock is breathtaking in anger and Mycroft's brain is already stuttering. When Sherlock stops pacing suddenly and whirls around and slams his fist on the desk Mycroft's brain stumbles to a halt. Sherlock out of breath with anger is nothing like Sherlock out of breath with pleasure in Mycroft's arms last night, but Mycroft longs to press his mouth to Sherlock's, any version of him, and Mycroft knows this longing will consume him one day.

"…just because Lestrade is on holiday. The last piece of the puzzle, and they think it's hilarious to pretend I can't have it. I need the victim's journal, Mycroft. And while you're at it perhaps you could shut down the circus masquerading as the Yard because other than Lestrade and-"

"I'll get you the journal." Mycroft wants that angry-sulky mouth, wants to kiss his brother so badly he has to bite down on his lip. And Sherlock is pacing again, a beautiful whirlwind barely contained in Mycroft's office. Mycroft watches him purse his lips, angry over being forced to stop mid-deduction, and it's Mycroft fault for fostering this since Sherlock was a child, when Mycroft couldn't handle the idea of Sherlock – beautiful, bright, vulnerable Sherlock – facing a world too ignorant to breathe the same air as him with its insecure bullies and spiteful morons. It's Mycroft's fault, foolishly thinking that arming Sherlock with deductive prowess would protect him like it has always protected Mycroft.

Sherlock is shrugging back into his coat, and it immediately swallows Sherlock's form with his shirt and trousers that are too snug for Mycroft's sanity. Mycroft is _aching _to kiss Sherlock's pout, lick the anger off his lips, suck it out of his brother's mouth. Sherlock's eyes flash, and it shouldn't steal Mycroft's breath away like this because Sherlock's eyes flashing in anger are nothing like his eyes darkening beneath Mycroft in bed, and this whirlwind is nothing like the maddening calm of Sherlock arching against Mycroft last night as Mycroft pressed into him, and Mycroft must be going mad because he's in love with both the angry whirlwind and the unhurried lover, and one version of his brother is enough to make him lose his mind.

Sherlock's hands are in his leather gloves now and he glances at Mycroft, already anxious to dash back to his puzzles, and Mycroft will have to wait until he can kiss that mouth. "Molly should have the lab results for me by now. Will you have someone drop off the journal at Baker Street?"

If Mycroft drops the journal at Baker Street, Sherlock will solve the case today and he will celebrate with his eager flatmate (who will show Sherlock off around London and continue being Not Gay and get to watch Sherlock eat, and even though it would be nothing like watching Sherlock distractedly nibble on toast in Mycroft's bed this morning or licking wine off Sherlock's lips last night the idea makes Mycroft seethe with jealousy). And Mycroft won't see him again today, and Mycroft _has _to kiss Sherlock today, because this morning wasn't enough and he already feels fucking bereft and Sherlock hasn't even left yet. Mycroft won't (_can't_ – oh he would but he can't) stoop to something as asinine as initiating a goodbye kiss. (Not if Sherlock's not going to offer; not this time; Mycroft would do it in a heartbeat but it would scare Sherlock off.) "Why don't you drop by the house after you're done at St Bart's? I'll have the journal by then."

"Fine," Sherlock huffs, but it's more out of habit than genuine. Relief has only begun to unfurl in Mycroft's gut when Sherlock crosses the room and presses his mouth to Mycroft's. Sherlock straightens and sweeps out of the room and leaves Mycroft sitting at his desk, lips parted, the fleeting taste of Sherlock's warm tongue and moist lips sending dizzying heat rushing through his veins.

Mycroft sighs shakily, still stunned by the unexpected kiss, and he wonders if he's going insane because he can't be in love with Sherlock like he has always thought. This is more visceral than love and Sherlock is more necessary than air. This began even before Mycroft understood what love was, the bond between him and Sherlock growing and branching and creeping back and tangling and meshing, long before Sherlock was a bright-eyed whirlwind seven year old Mycroft taught and doted upon, then an intelligent, bullied 14-year-old Mycroft missed every day, then a 17-year-old genius Mycroft longed for more than air those days (the longing still feels carved into Mycroft's very bones) until the 20-year-old Sherlock found him, in every sense of the word.

Mycroft thinks of Sherlock's stubble scratching Mycroft's thigh this morning and reducing Mycroft to incoherence, of Sherlock's mouth against Mycroft's last night and this morning and just now, making Mycroft's heart feel like it will give out every single time. And Mycroft thinks of lying awake last night watching his sleeping brother breathe in and out, in and out, and how it seemed far more enticing than sleep.

Mycroft touches his lips, thinks of kissing Sherlock this evening, thinks in giddy disbelief of the opportunity to watch Sherlock deduce again, after more time has passed than Mycroft cares to remember since he would show Sherlock how to follow the trail visible only to the two of them. Mycroft thinks of the moment Sherlock solved his puzzles, thinks of Sherlock's lips around a thrilled _oh _that was innocent and endearing from the bright-eyed child but later played hell with Mycroft's nerves and made heat pool low in his stomach, and how he longed to kiss it out of Sherlock's mouth.

Mycroft's thinks of witnessing all that again, and actually doing it this time, and wonders when he will go insane.

Sherlock is already in the house when Mycroft walks in. He's pacing and fidgeting in shirtsleeves and trousers, and Mycroft clamps down on a traitorous thought of a house where he can expect to find Sherlock at the end of every day.

Sherlock brightens the moment his eager gaze falls on Mycroft's hands. "You brought it."

Their fingers brush as Sherlock snatches the flimsy journal from Mycroft's hands. Mycroft decides illicit moments are better than nothing, better than suggesting something that would scare Sherlock off and rob Mycroft of this, of him.

Mycroft fumbles his coat off and onto the coat rack. Sherlock is still in the same shirtsleeves and trousers Mycroft watched him put on this morning in Mycroft's bedroom, and Mycroft's mouth goes dry. Sherlock reads and paces the hall and rakes slender fingers through his curls. His lean back flexes under his shirt, and Mycroft is achingly aware that they're alone. Mycroft's lips are tingling for Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock's skin, but he has to wait because he can't touch Sherlock until he's solved his puzzle. He will wait, he _can_ wait because he went through the journal on the way home and he already knows where Sherlock will find his answer. So he watches and longs and watches and waits. Sherlock's back tenses for a fleeting moment before his head whips up, the journal falling to the floor, and Mycroft knows he's reached the revealing entry, and now he's done waiting.

When Mycroft steps into Sherlock's space, Sherlock is muttering rapidly to himself, hopping from clue to dazzling clue the way Mycroft taught him so long ago, and the intellectual rush alone makes Mycroft sway on his feet. Mesmerised, he watches Sherlock's lips move, watches the strip of skin above his brother's Cupid's bow.

The fragrant, warm air Sherlock exhales is intoxicating as Mycroft nudges his brother's nose with his. Mycroft must be _drunk _on Sherlock, his proximity and his body heat and his scent, and Mycroft wonders whether he might faint from lust.

Sherlock's frantic muttering stops suddenly, the low light in the hall glinting off a silky lock that has tumbled over Sherlock's eyebrow. Mycroft licks his lips. Not yet; he has to hold back. He stands a hair's breadth away and breathes Sherlock's air and watches the mad dance of all the clues as they weave together in glittering threads behind Sherlock's closed eyelids. And he watches Sherlock's soft eyelashes flutter as his eyes fly open in rapture.

"Oh," Sherlock breathes into Mycroft's trembling mouth, and Mycroft can't hold back anymore.

Sherlock lets himself into the dark quiet of Mycroft's house in relief. Interminable – it was interminable to actually wrap up the case and convince John that yes, Sherlock was fine; yes, Sherlock really wasn't hungry right then; and no (after some screaming on John's part and a lot of glaring on Sherlock's), Sherlock wasn't trying to elude John and head to one of his nooks around London to do drugs because the case wasn't interesting enough. And then he'd had to prove it to John by having dinner.

_Interesting enough?_ This was the best case Sherlock has had in ages, he muses as he easily dodges the antique vases and other expensive clutter littering Mycroft's house. He climbs the stairs excitedly. This time the usual high from finally solving a case is there, but there's something else too.

Mycroft had got him the journal, effectively participating in Sherlock's deductions. Sherlock would never have solved the case without it. Not to mention what securing the journal meant: Point for Sherlock, zero for the morons who didn't want to give him the journal.

But that wasn't all. Mycroft had also apparently found Sherlock's deductive process hot, if Sherlock was going to go by the evidence this evening. A few scorching kisses and a couple of strokes – Mycroft had actually needed nothing else, hadn't even said a word when Sherlock kissed him and rushed off to the Yard with the journal. Something giddy and tender rolls in Sherlock's chest, and he can't stop smiling as he eases Mycroft's bedroom door open quietly.

Despite the heavy darkness in Mycroft's bedroom, Mycroft is wide awake. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Wide awake and worried. And cautious. Always worried and cautious, as if only problems could bring Sherlock here. Sherlock wonders fleetingly if that is true, then wonders if Mycroft has forgotten about the trail of bites down Sherlock's inner thigh that clearly say otherwise. Mycroft's breath catches when Sherlock starts undressing. Something squeezes Sherlock's guts and he hurries out of his clothes and slides into bed, finding Mycroft's mouth with his. Mycroft kisses him back hungrily, and Sherlock loses himself in the kiss, relishing Mycroft's possessive hands in his hair and on his back.

"What's wrong?"

"I told you. Nothing. You sound like I only come here if I have a problem."

And there's that cautious silence again, and Sherlock knows Mycroft doesn't want to start a fight or insult Sherlock. Sherlock wonders for a fleeting moment whether Mycroft might ever get bored of dodging and weathering Sherlock's moods. He finds Mycroft's lips again to silence the vile thought, and Mycroft kisses him back as he always does, open-mouthed and long and _hungry_, as if the rest of the world's on hold.

Sherlock kisses the tip of Mycroft's elegant nose before he sighs and says, "I had an interesting call from Lestrade, by the way."

"He's lucky the Yard didn't fire his team for sheer stupidity. Obstructing their own attempts at justice."

The steel in Mycroft's voice melts Sherlock's heart. Mycroft's warm fingers on Sherlock's back pull Sherlock into another kiss. Sherlock remembers the same warm fingers carefully cleaning Sherlock's bloody knees and calves (and, one horrible time, his cheek – Mycroft's face had turned nearly unrecognisable with anger then) after yet another endless encounter with school bullies, remembers the same steel in Mycroft's voice as Mycroft exposed everything he'd deduced about the bullies to Sherlock's teachers in clipped, icy tones. Sherlock smiles against Mycroft's lips. "If you fire imbeciles for being imbeciles, the entire country will be unemployed."

Mycroft kisses him again, sloppy and sweet, like the treats he had unfailingly used to distract Sherlock from his injured pride and bloodied skin. "Perhaps just the imbeciles who ruin your fun, then."

Mycroft's tongue laps at his earlobe, and the smoky, woodsy traces of Mycroft's perfume mingle with his natural, irresistible scent and turn Sherlock's head. "They're not really bullies, you know."

"They deserved it," Mycroft says darkly, rolling on top of Sherlock and pinning him to the mattress, and Sherlock tries to hang onto coherent thought under the desperate heat of Mycroft's mouth, the angry protectiveness spilling from Mycroft's fingers, curled around Sherlock's thigh.

"Not denying that." Sherlock surrenders to the savage kiss for a few moments. "I never got to come, you know."

"Unforgivable of me, even though you did rush off. Allow me to remedy that," Mycroft whispers, sure fingers brushing Sherlock's slit.

"I… ah… have a better idea . I had no idea deductions turned you on."

"_You_ turn me on."

"Good. Let's play a game then. Give me some clues about what you did to Lestrade's team and I'll deduce it."

"Sherlock, they deserved it."

"Yes, they did, and now I want to play." Sherlock spreads his legs around Mycroft's waist. "Don't you want to watch me play?"

Mycroft stutters into Sherlock's mouth and this, _this_ is why Sherlock lives to solve puzzles: Deductions are proud approval in Mycroft's intelligent eyes, Mycroft's sharp brain and eyes all on Sherlock alone, even though there are other things Sherlock can do now to bask in this glorious attention. Sherlock is in love with all of Mycroft but he's also in love with the fine chisel in Mycroft's brain and the moment that fine chisel smashed Mycroft's arguments against what they have now. And the moment after that when Mycroft's defenses finally, _finally _fell. Mycroft moves against Sherlock, tousled and breathless and stained with Sherlock's sweat, and kisses him again.

"Let's play," Sherlock whispers into his mouth, arching against his brother.

And they do.


End file.
